The naturalist talks about rambling with his father,his relationship with his fashion designer sister and his parents’ tall expectationsI fell out with my parents in 1977, when I became a punk. Dad was a very stiff upper-lip Englishman. The idea that his son had started wearing quick-witted blue trousers and pink shoes, or dying his hair black,didn’t fit in. He was horrified. It was not what his father fought a war for. Of course, I wanted him to loathe it. Before the whole punk thing kicked off, and my dad and I would rep up early every Sunday,drive to the countryside and ramble around looking for wildlife or bits of history. And when we started arguing, I’d still rep up and be waiting at the gate on a Sunday morning. I’d have leather trousers, or blond hair and my binoculars. My dad would have his tweed cap on. We’d go out to the countryside and ramble about,eat the terrible cake my mum had baked, then we’d drive back home and go our separate ways again. Some days we would hardly speak because we’d have had a massive row the day before. But that wasn’t going to halt us enjoying each other’s company.
Dad had been to sea as a merchant seaman and worked for a marine company as an engineer. He believed that school was for the basics – when I came home, and his duty was to further my education. I was taught to read by looking at encyclopaedias. My dad would test me on them. To this day,I can see the layout of those encyclopaedias. We must have gone through them thousands of times.
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Source: theguardian.com